


Casualties of Love

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [304]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A Bit of An Homage To Kings, Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Bearded Steve Rogers, Fear of loss, Feelings Realization, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 02:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20400511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: It was his nerves that nearly did him in, nerves and the 80-proof whiskey he’d whittled down to two fingers over the course of the afternoon.





	Casualties of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Inspired by [this](https://lethal-desires.tumblr.com/post/131367783878/by-your-side-dedicated-to-isabellajack).

It was his nerves that nearly did him in, nerves and the 80-proof whiskey he’d whittled down to two fingers over the course of the afternoon. His instructions, he’d thought, had been clear, and the Captain, for all of his faults, excelled at following directions and at giving them, if need be. That he hadn’t arrived at the appointed hour--with several minutes to spare, even--made the prince profoundly uneasy, but uneasiness was not an emotion he was keen to show with so many of his so-called advisors flitting inside and out, throwing maps in his face and making noises about troop movements and pretending to ignore his drinking. They were too polite to call him on it--too chicken shit, was more like--and too well-bred to send word to his father; the king was ailing and the queen was at his side and so like it not, they were, in this moment of crisis, stuck with the prince, and they knew it. When he wasn’t trashed, their barely-masked discomfort amused him. The kingdom would be his soon enough and he’d be rid of them, his fathers’ men, all of them. He had grand plans, oh yes, he did; but all of those, he thought miserably, would be for naught if the man who sat at the center of them were dead.

“My lord?” A timid face in the doorway.

“What is it, Barton?”

“My lord, Captain Rogers is here.”

“Well,” the prince sneered, his heart leaping behind his breast, some of the afternoon’s awful tension uncoiling, “get out of the fucking way and send him in.”

When he stood up, unevenly, anticipating, he discovered that there were others in the room--the odd general or two, someone banging away on a typewriter--and he waved his arms at them, bellowing, send them scurrying towards the same door that swung open as Rogers stepped in.

“Finally!” The prince snapped his fingers at the last retreating man. “See that we’re not disturbed. Next man who puts a fist to my door will get a bullet for his troubles, understand?”

When it slammed shut, Rogers said: “You shooting your soldiers now, highness?”

“If they keep showing up late, I might.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“No shit.”

“I don’t like it when you drink.”

“I don’t give a damn what you like, Captain. I gave you a very specific order to report to me at 1400 hours today.”

“And I,” the captain said softly, moving with the best sort of menace, “would’ve moved heaven and earth to be here on time but war doesn’t run on a timetable, my lord.”

In a moment, the prince found himself pinned: the edge of his father’s desk at his back and the brick wall of the captain’s body at his front and something in him, already ragged by the day’s worry, was tearing, was making the game they usually played--spoiled prince and uppity captain--feel hollow and empty and weak. There were slurs he’d had ready all afternoon, a dozen angry, cutting remarks, all of which would have lead them to the sort of sex he lived for: the captain’s hands bruising his hips and his own digging blood into the captain’s broad back until the captain, a man of control, a man whose mask beyond this room never slipped, was snarling in his ear and coming in his ass and not letting him have so much as a hand on his cock until the captain’s pleasure was done.

But today, in the last golden hours of the afternoon, he didn’t want that.

He wanted to touch the captain’s face, bearded, bearing the smell of gunpowder. So he did.

He wanted to arch in the cage of the captain’s arms, two palms pressed to wood that was older than them both, and pull that big, warm body to his. So he did.

And he wanted, more than anything, to tip his head towards that red, giving mouth and take it without asking; to drink his fill, and then drink more. So he did.

And his captain, bless him, didn’t argue. Instead, he slid his hands from the desk to cup the prince’s hips and tease his thighs until the prince’s legs were wrapped around his waist, the prince’s hands speared through his long, dusty hair.

“You’re late,” the prince murmured. He was trembling, he realized; so be it. “You’re so late, Rogers. You’re never late, and I thought that you were--”

“Shhhhh.” Rogers kissed him again, clawed gently at his back. “I’m sorry. I should’ve sent word.”

“Has something bad happened?’

“Darling, the generals would have told you if it had.”

“The generals, pah. Morons, the whole lot of them. None of them have the balls to tell me bad news.”

The captain nuzzled his throat. “Perhaps because you threaten to shoot them for no good reason, hmm?”

“No,” the prince said, laying his head back, humming. “For very good reason. You’re the only reason I got up today and I’ll be damned if I let them ruin it.”

He felt Rogers’ breath catch. “The only reason, huh?”

“Surely you know that by now.”

“Know what?”

He was hard, revved up by days of anticipation. The captain was, too. And the prince couldn’t remember a time when they’d let so much time slip by between their initial reunion and the tearing of clothes, the urgent, dirty slap of rough sex. But it seemed important now, to speak, to say words that worry and alcohol had teased out of what he’d always believed was the cold cinder of his heart.

He stroked Rogers’ neck and tucked his fingers beneath his collar, petted the damp skin he found there. Closed his eyes and pressed his mouth to the man’s temple. Whispered:

“I adore you, Steven.”

The captain groaned, his fingers digging fiercely into the prince’s back. “Oh, James.”

“I _adore_ you and the thought of you lying dead in a ditch on some road somewhere, dead because of me, because I asked you to come back to me, because I needed to see you today, every day, the fucking war be damned--”

When they kissed this time, there was a sweetness to it, a different kind of desperation, and even through his booze-colored haze, the prince could feel the difference in the way the captain was holding him, the way he was rocking against the prince’s body, urgent and anxious and loving all at once.

“My darling boy,” Rogers breathed when they parted, only a slip of air pitched between them. “I need you so badly.”

“You have me,” the prince said. The words felt thick with tears, with whiskey, with the terror of the last hours and the shadow of what would have been regret. “Can’t you understand that? I’m yours and you, goddamn it, are mine.”

The desk was their bed, again, but this time, the captain took him skin to skin, their uniforms shed, sprawled like casualties of love at their feet. This time, despite their urgency, the captain licked him open with the sort of slowness that made the prince writhe before slicking his fingers and stretching, before coating his cock and catching, before easing the prince onto his back over the faces of a half dozen maps and pressing into him slowly, aching, tracing the lines of the prince’s ribs and grinning down at him as he did. 

“Yes,” he murmured when they were joined, when the prince was straining again, his dick bobbing red and eager, his hands braced in the captain’s thick hair. “You’re so lovely like this, James. My god, yes."

And when the prince came, it was with the captain inside him and with the captain’s mouth on his and with the pleasure of knowing that he was alive, that Rogers was, and that together, their hands clasped and heat pouring between them, there was no one they couldn’t conquer, nothing they couldn’t do.

“I love you,” the prince said as Rogers stuttered inside him, ecstasy turning in waves over the captain’s handsome face. “And there’s no way in hell I’m letting you die.”

When he could, the captain kissed him, his mouth still slack from the shudder of release. “Only you,” he murmured. “Only you would you think you could command death herself, my prince.”

“Today I have, haven’t I?” He sighed against the captain’s cheek. “Today she spared you and brought you to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> PS: If you haven't watched Seb in the TV series _Kings_, get on that.


End file.
